Recollections from an evening in the west side of Laredo, TX
Tuesday, August 26, 2014

The young girl sat at her desk, typing away. She glanced warily at the time in the bottom corner of the computer screen. Five minutes until the pre-game show, she thought to herself.  She reached across the desk and picked up the television remote control, clicked the power button, and viewed the screen. The television is still on the evening news. She glanced at the time again. 6:26 p.m. Four more minutes.

Her attention returned to the computer screen, her eyes quickly scanning the entry she had been typing. She typed two more sentences and then finished the entry with her signature. There, it’s done. She hit the enter key and her entry was posted to her blog.

It was time to prepare for the game. Isabel never missed a game. Not a single game, not a single inning, not a single at bat, not a single pitch would Isabel dare consider missing. Baseball was her obsession, but even more so, Isabel was obsessed with San Antonio Calzones de Laredo baseball. Isabel was now 13 years old, and for eight of those years, Calzones baseball had been the shining beacon of light in her life. It was baseball, more than anything else, that filled Isabel with unending joy. More importantly, it filled her with the hope, promise, and wonderment of youth.

Isabel began her game time ritual by reaching down and opening the middle drawer of the desk. She picked up the notebook and the pad of scorecards. Gingerly, she pulled the top sheet from the pad of scorecards, setting it on top of the loose-leaf notebook and then setting both in the empty spot on the left side of the desk. She returned the pad of scorecards to the drawer and closed it.

Isabel’s eyes scanned the desk and then glanced around the room. Where’s my pen? She thought carefully for minute. I know I had it here earlier. The young girl scanned the very organized desktop again. Not here. What the heck did I do with it? I’m always losing pens. Oh, whatever… I’ll find it when I get back from the kitchen.

The pre-game show had started by now on the television. Isabel listened to the customary introduction: a quick run-through of what they will be talking about on the show before a cut to the first long commercial break. The break was her cue to head for the kitchen. She always had to make a trip to the kitchen before the game started. If nothing else, Isabel was a creature of habit. A game could not start without her having a bowl of nachos and a bottle of Pepsi to help get her through the tension and excitement of the game.

Isabel made her way down the narrow hallway and crossed the small living room to the kitchen. She found her mother at the kitchen table, staring intently at her laptop. The young girl went directly to her mom and leaned over to kiss her cheek. Her mother noticed her approach and leaned her cheek towards her daughter. It was a ritual the two repeated many times each day. It was so automatic that neither was probably even aware of it any longer; it just happened. It was the byproduct of a special bond between a mother and a daughter, a bond only Isabel and Rosa could ever share.

Isabel picked up a small tray from the counter. The tray was in the same spot every day – her mother made sure of that. On the tray was Isabel’s bowl, used every night for her nachos. Isabel filled the large bowl with chips until it was overflowing and returned the bag to the cupboard next to the refrigerator.

“Game time, mija?” asked her mother. Rosa Padilla knew her daughter’s ritual all too well. It was the same almost every day from April to September. If the Calzones were playing, Isabel would follow her ritual religiously.

“Almost, Mommy,” replied Isabel.

“Need some help, mija?”

“I’ve got it, Mommy,”

“Who are the Call-zon-ehs playing tonight?”

Isabel was always happy to hear her mother pronounce the Calzones’ name. Her mother was one of the few who actually pronounced the name right. Even the team’s own radio and television announcers rarely came close to the proper pronunciation. Most horrific was the flat, two-syllable manner in which the national sportscasters on stations such as ESPN pronounced the name. Cal-zones. Yuck. Mom is the only one who gets it right. Call-zon-ehs. It always sounded so perfect coming from her mother.

“The London Underground,” Isabel replied. “They can’t hit and they’re sending that dwarf Collins to the mound. We already roughed him up once this year. Hopefully. the bats can wake up tonight and we can end this skid.”

“Who is on the mound for the Call-zon-ehs?”

Isabel pulled a Pepsi from the refrigerator. “Rosado,” she answered. “We really need some innings out of him; the bullpen is in tatters after the last couple of games. But I don’t know… his longest outing all season was only four innings, and this is just his third start. He hasn’t been stretched out this season. He’s being groomed for the bullpen.”

Rosa listened to her daughter and tried to make some sense of it. Baseball was not her natural love. She barely understood the game. Baseball was her daughter’s love. Rosa loved her daughter, so she tried to learn as much about baseball as she could. She knew she would never master the knowledge of the game as her daughter had, but it wasn’t for lack of effort. Rosa loved baseball simply because Isabel loved baseball. Anything that made her mija, her angelito, happy… well, that brought happiness to Rosa, as well.

“Mija, I made you some guacamole,” her mother told her. “It is in the plastic bowl, bottom shelf.”

“Thanks, Mommy,” replied Isabel. She removed the container of guacamole, added it to the tray, then grabbed a jar of jalapeños and placed two large spoonfuls into the bowl of chips. This was followed by a large spoonful of sour cream.

Pre-game will be back on in about 15 seconds. Isabel had a precise internal clock telling her it was time to return to her room. She closed the refrigerator, quickly scanned the items on her tray, and then began the return trip.

“Come watch with me, Mommy,” she suggested to her mother. “Game starts in 25 minutes.”

“I’ll join you a bit later, mija,” her mother replied. “I have some work to finish first.”

“Okay,” Isabel replied. She was already more than halfway to her room. When she arrived, she set the tray of refreshments on the near end of the dresser, close enough to be within arm’s reach from her customary sitting spot in front of the desk. She eyed the television and listened intently as the hosts talked about the highlights from afternoon action around the PEBA. Crystal Lake had thumped Tempe 10-4. Boring. Another Sandgnats win. Palm Springs had pulled out a 5-2 win in 11 innings on the road at Canton. I don’t know how Palm Springs wins. They have less talent than Justin Bieber.

Isabel made her way to her desk, opened the bottommost drawer and removed a worn spiral notebook from a stack of worn spiral notebooks. “August 2014” was written in black marker on the cover. She flipped to the page with her last entry. I need my pen. What the heck did I do with the pen? Isabel was slightly frustrated with her inability to locate her writing implement. She listened to the announcers going through the highlights of the third and final game from PEBA afternoon action: West Virginia defeating Manchester 4-2. Nii picked up his league-leading 40^th save. He is just a stud. We need a closer like that. Now where the heck is that pen? I hate losing things.

She scanned the room for the pen again, this time more frantically. It was nowhere to be seen. If there was anything that could annoy young Isabel, it was being disorganized. Organization and order were nearly as important to her happiness as baseball.

The pre-game show went to a second commercial break. They will be back with last night’s highlights and a preview of tonight’s game. I need a pen. Ugh.

Isabel finally relented and went to the closet on the far side of the room. Inside the immaculately organized closet was a two-drawer filing cabinet. Isabel opened the top drawer and pulled out a brand new unused pen. There were several dozen new pens in the drawer. Isabel felt the rush of relief as she took the new pen over to the desk, but the fact that she had lost a pen still nagged at her. I’m too disorganized. What’s wrong with me?

Isabel began to organize herself for the game. She adjusted the tray of refreshments, moving it a little closer to the near end of the dresser so that it would be within arm’s length without having to stretch. She turned her chair at an angle so she could see both the TV to her left and the computer to her right. She left the scorecard and loose-leaf notebook on the left side of the desk for later use and set the spiral notebook marked “August 2014” to her right.

The pre-game show returned and the hosts began working through the highlights of last night’s game. Isabel had watched every pitch, but she sat intently through the highlights, reinforcing the memory of the game in her mind. The Calzones trailed 3-0 entering the 9^th. They stormed back, scoring three runs and sending the game into extra innings, where they eventually lost in the 11^th inning. So close, but still, yet another loss. It was their sixth straight loss, their thirteenth in fifteen games. Bush deserved better. If it were not for that error by José Hernández, maybe we could have won. It seems it’s always one play every game. Last night, it was that stupid error. I wonder what inventive way of losing this gang of knuckleheads will find tonight?

Isabel scribbled a quick note in the notebook, all the while listening to the hosts discuss the Calzones’ injury report. Nothing new on Jeffrey Thomas; he’s recovering and will be back next season. Centerfielder Bobby Wilder received a cortisone shot and should return in about ten days. Xavier Gómes’s surgery had been routine; he might be able to begin rehab in about three weeks and would certainly be ready for Opening Day next season. He better be. We need “X” in the rotation. The latest reports on right fielder Eric Olsen were less encouraging. His shoulder had not responded as well to surgery as hoped and a second surgery might be necessary. He’s toast. Fortunately, the Calzones’ outfield looks okay next season, but it’s a shame. Olsen was finally starting to put it together. Isabel scribbled another entry in the notebook.

The pre-game show went to the last commercial break. Hernández, James Hayes, Thomas, Sherman Hicks, and Wilder. We’ll be okay with that outfield. Isabel reached over and grabbed a chip from the bowl, making sure to scoop a little guacamole as well as a jalapeño slice as she did so. She ignored the commercial, turning to the computer as she munched on her chip. Quickly, she scrolled through the schedule and checked out the pitching match-ups of the evening’s other games on the official PEBA website. Hancock looking for win number 18. If only the Calzones had an ace like that.

She minimized the window with the PEBA site and opened the window that contained her blog. Her eyes scanned the various comments to her latest posting. Her fingers went to work on the keyboard, typing a polite response to the most recent comment.

Agreed, it’s hard to see Rosado making it through 5 innings. He just hasn’t been stretched out this season. But García has painted himself into a corner. The bullpen is on fumes right now and he can’t put Hendricks back in the rotation until he stops tipping his pitches. We’ll see what happens. How the bullpen gets managed tonight could be very interesting. We’re just a few days from the rosters expanding; maybe the bullpen will get some relief then. Until then, we might have to strap ourselves in; it’s probably going to be a bumpy ride. But you can’t fault García too much. He’s doing the best he can with the garbage that idiot GM has given him to work with.

The pre-game show returned from the final commercial break and the hosts gave a quick preview of that night’s game. It was the usual tripe about what the Calzones had to do to win the game: pitch well, hit well, field well, don’t make mistakes. Isabel found herself rolling her eyes at the clichéd banter. Well, duh. If we did that every game, we would be a lock to win the Rodriguez Cup.

It was always we. Much like any true fan, her team was not a separate entity. In her mind, she was a part of it, and it was a part of her. It was not them. It was not the Calzones. It was we. When she spoke of the Calzones, it would always be we.

Fortunately, the last bit of banter ended with the much-anticipated words Isabel had been waiting for all day: “Now stay tuned for San Antonio Calzones of Laredo baseball.” The next three hours would be the best three hours of Isabel’s day. They were always the best three hours. From the first pitch until the final out, Isabel was exactly where she wanted to be.